


Line of Fire

by nymja



Category: DC Cinematic Universe, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Contract Killing as Flirting, F/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 20:54:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7729369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He takes out her accountant, she takes him out for drinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Line of Fire

**Author's Note:**

> for a tumblr prompt requesting Deadshot/Harley!

Three months after they’re sprung from Belle Reve, Floyd starts taking jobs again. Zoe’s managed to get into one of them prep schools, and that shit didn’t come cheap. So here he is, perched on a roof with his old friends, lining up shots in Gotham’s underbelly. It’s like old times. Well, maybe a little quieter than old times. Not that he minds it. Because he doesn’t. **  
**

Two months after he starts taking jobs again, he gets a text from someone outside his contact list.

_500k, Emmett Kelly._

His lips quirk. One hand nonchalantly takes out a target from his vantage point as the other one swipes a quick response.   _How’d you get this number._

Down the road there’s a yelp, the sound of a body dropping, and Floyd’s sliding down the fire escape. Once his boots touch the ground, he checks for a response:

_You’re highly recommended, Mr DeadShot_

He shakes his head. The number’s unlisted, but he has a hunch. More than likely, she’s trying to be cute. But hey, he can play along–he doesn’t mind, and it’s her check she’ll be cutting.

_When?_

_Tomorrow, 1am!_

He turns off the phone. Already, he has a hunch about where he’s going to wind up.

–

The club’s damn obnoxious, it’s the only way to put it. Every car is a sports, with those flashing undercarriage lights that might as well scream “Rob Me!.” One literally does have ROB ME slathered in spray paint on the side, which should be enough to tell him about the clientele for this particular venue.

It’s not the first time Floyd’s found his way around to the Grin and Bare It strip club, but typically it’s just to pick someone off from the alley. Tonight’s the first time he’s ever had the urge to take a look inside, and while part of him’s amused at his poor state of mind, the other part’s telling him there’s easier people to work for. He lays on his stomach, propping up his sniper rifle and scanning the club floor through the scope. He’s not surprised that there’s a predominant favoring of the corset look on the girls inside, or gaudy suits and chains on the men, but he’s only got an eye for one thing tacky and sparkly tonight.

It doesn’t take him long to find her. Harley’s hair is in its customary pigtails, her dress something small and slinky and yeah, maybe he watches it ride up her thighs for a second as she shifts forward in her seat.

Her red lips pull back to reveal a toothy smile for the man across from her. Floyd already knows who it is, doesn’t bother to turn his scope to him. Even though there’s a brief, nagging thought that the head of The Joker’s worth a cool six mil on the streets. Probably more if he negotiated with the right members of Gotham’s not-so finest-

“No killing the boyfriend,” he mutters to himself. “Not unless there’s a bonus.” His hand digs out his phone and he presses it on speaker before calling.

In the club, Harley looks down. He watches her read the incoming number, grin, and lean forward to kiss the man across from her goodbye-

Floyd’s upper lip curls. Just a little.

-and she practically skips to one of the other VIP booths, blue-colored fingernails flashing as she answers his call.

 _“You came!”_ She chirps.

Floyd snorts. “That’ll happen when you order a hitman. Where’s your boy?”

She leans against the wall, wraps a curl around one of her fingers. _“Can we play hot or cold?”_

He laughs, despite himself. “Not on my dime.”

_“Twenty questions?”_

“Don’t do this often, do you?”

A devious smirk lights her face up in his crosshairs. “ _You know I’m a self-service kind of girl.”_

“Any particular reason you decided to hire?”

Harley bites down on her lower lip, raises her brows. She’s looking out the window, and even though he knows she can’t see him, the expression on her face makes it clear she knows he can see her. “ _Maybe I don’t wanna ruin this dress.”_

“It’s a good dress. But bullshit, dollface.”

She puts on one of her exaggerated pouts. “ _Fine, I missed ya.”_

“That’s flattering.” And it is, weirdly enough. Her eyes gleam in his scope, and she brings up her free hand in a tiny wave. He shakes his head, but the permanent frown set in his forehead lessens a little.  Floyd takes a breath, reminds himself that he can’t flirt on the job. “Now how about we spend some quality time together, and you point out the clown I’m killing this fine evening.”

She perks up. _“And martinis after?”_

“I’ll take a whiskey, but sure.”

–

He takes out her accountant. She covers the tab with part of his check for the hit. And maybe his arm goes around her waist and maybe she tugs at his collar, but it’s all between friends. For now.

–

The next day, there’s another text.

_20k, Lou Jacobs._

He grins. _There’s cheaper ways to get a date._

_Lemme woo you!_

Floyd runs a hand over his head. He doubts she’s through with her puddin’. Who’d probably pay his own guys to put a target on his head if Floyd goes through any one of the ten thoughts on his mind. She’s a whole lot of trouble.

_…10k and you buy dinner._

But what the hell. Floyd’s never been afraid of clowns.

_D E A L !!_


End file.
